


A Sickness of the Mind

by ShaneAndrew



Series: Picture's Worth [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Hate Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaneAndrew/pseuds/ShaneAndrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smaug is nothing like Thorin remembers him being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sickness of the Mind

**Author's Note:**

> First things first: Fic is based on the following fanart: http://hollydermovoi.tumblr.com/post/47731086033/brilcrist-continuity-from-my-previous-just-for
> 
> Second: um. I'm not sure exactly where this all came from, but it's creepier than usual for me. Basically wanted to experiment with writing a different kind of encounter than my other works. So for my regular readers, be prepared for some disturbing stuff. This does contain dubcon, so warnings for that.
> 
> Hope y'all like it, and if not I tooootally don't blame you.
> 
> SA

Thorin made his quick and careful way down the tunnel, glad that he’d insisted the company stay behind, waiting by the hidden door. Given what was waiting for them within the heart of the Mountain, he was not willing to put any of his fellows at risk. Therefore he would go in alone, scope out the situation, and hopefully discover a chink in the dragon’s armor.

            Another time he might have insisted he take a few of his company with him for protection and assistance with strategy, but some small part of him knew that he didn’t really want to. He was not usually so reckless, but then he had not been himself for days. Scaling their way up the mountainside with thoughts of the legendary wealth that waited for them…it had begun to stir a sickness in him – the same gold-sickness that had taken his grandfather but he could not, would not allow himself to acknowledge that thought consciously.

            The gold was the trophy of _his_ kingdom; was _his_ birthright. He had every reason for wanting to spend some time alone with such an important piece of his heritage.

            The only problem, of course, was the dragon that stood between him and his treasure. All he remembered of him was the sensation of hugeness, of blood-red scales, and the stench of the creature – it had stunk of smoke, of sweat and of death as it had slaughtered his people. On the tail of that thought he came into the central chamber where vast valleys of gold glittered in beautiful slopes, and felt his heart stutter.

            This was not the creature he remembered. He seemed at the core still a dragon, but the form and the face of him was that of a man.

            He sat facing away from where the Dwarf stood, caressing the goblets and chains and golden coins that sat nearest to him. Large wings protruded from the back of a crimson jacket that hung open to reveal a chest that looked to be half-skin, half-scale. There was a great deal of gold braid on the jacket, and on the deep blue breeches that clung smoothly to the man-dragon’s legs. Legs that ended in clawed feet, red as his wings and looking decidedly lethal.  His hands also bore claws that grew from a man’s hands, the dull white bone of the things gleaming oddly in the half-light. Hair darker than a raven’s wing sat looking oddly soft and smooth on the creature’s head. The golden light reflecting from the treasure onto the mane had Thorin nearly reaching out, wanting to card his fingers through the gilded darkness of it.

            Ruthlessly shoving the impulse aside, he swallowed hard, drew his sword and made to move into the enormous chamber.

            “Ah, the ever-legendary Thorin Oakenshield. Such a pleasure to be re-acquainted, my boy.”

            “Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!” He had been spotted; the creature was perhaps not so absorbed in the gold as he’d presumed. “This is my mountain, and as such you will only speak when bidden to do so!”

            The creature chuckled low in his throat, the baritone rumble of it curling ’round the Dwarf’s senses like a nail file rubbed along his spine. He felt the urge to suppress a most unusual quiver – what sorcery was the worm working?

            “So dominant, so angry.” He grinned, snakelike. “So utterly, utterly foolish. You think your little band stands any chance against the power I wield? I have walked this earth a _thousand_ years.”

            He stood then, turned to face the Dwarf fully. Cheekbones sharp as his claws were the highlight of a smooth, narrow face that nevertheless proved to be entirely arresting. Thin, pale lips sat in a cupid’s bow, currently curved upward with feral delight. His nose was long and straight, and set neatly between eyes that burned yellow and red and with vertical pupils blown wide.

            There was no reason, no reason at all, for the curl of arousal that slithered under Thorin’s skin at that moment. He quickly racked his brains for a way to retreat safely, or failing that a way to slay the beast, but Smaug’s next movement stalled him.

            He carefully selected a shining coin from the pool at his feet, twirled it easily in his long fingers. Suddenly his burning gaze was fixed on Thorin’s as a moist tongue darted out to drag along the edge of the gold.

            Thorin’s mouth went absolutely dry. His heartbeat was suddenly roaring in his ears, and a sick heat was pooling deep in his groin. When the man-dragon tugged the coin into his mouth and began sucking on it in earnest, withdrew it again so that his spit made it glisten sinfully in the half-light, he felt himself beginning to harden.

            _No_. His head was shaking, hands trembling on his great sword. How could this – how could _he_ –

            “I would have thought it obvious,” the other purred, a growl hovering at the edge of his silken voice. “The Dwarves have always held gold and treasure closest to their hearts, have they not? Sought it, mined it, cherished it as one would a lover?” He lowered the gold down, down towards his dark breeches, leaving a wet trail in its wake.

            “Your grandfather cherished his gold above all others, as I recall,” he hissed, now pressing the edge of the coin to the growing bulge at his crotch. “So desperate to keep it close to himself that he left this place unguarded. And such wealth, well…I simply couldn’t resist. This pitiful mountain was _mine_ to take, _mine_ to defile. And these shapely mounds of gold, so warm to the touch, such exciting friction on tired skin, and every piece of it _mine_ to take pleasure in. Such fun I’ve had, but one can only do so much when they’ve only oneself for company.”

            He grinned then, baring two fangs amidst otherwise man-like teeth. “Oh, but I’m forgetting my manners,” he purred. He let the coin fall with a tiny, sharp _clink_ of metal on metal, back to the rest. Selected a necklace, tossed it to the Dwarf who caught it reflexively.

            “Go on. Mustn’t deny yourself your family’s treasure. Go on and have a taste.”

            The words were wicked, manipulative, and touched a nerve in Thorin that he didn’t want to admit to having. His fingers were already running over the smooth, glorious gleam – the skill of the Dwarves was unequaled to say the least. Before he knew what he was doing he was caressing and stroking. Savoring the sweet, clean slide of the treasure on his scarred and pitted skin.

            And suddenly dropped it as though scalded, shamed by the flush that now crept tellingly over his skin. He was not going to play such games with his most accursed enemy.

            His moment of hesitation, of indulgence had cost him. Smaug had moved with the speed of a cobra, and so silently that he had not realized the other’s proximity until he was in Thorin’s space, advancing ever quicker until the Dwarf was all but pinned to the chamber wall.

            He slammed into the unyielding rock, gasped as the air was knocked solidly from his lungs. And then the creature was there, there, its hybrid face and body mere inches from his own. He felt the creature’s hot breath feathering over his ear, the hard press of slick fangs over the pulse point in his throat. And while he struggled and snarled, Smaug simply laughed that dangerous laugh. Low and dark and damning. Strangely, impossibly alluring.

            He told himself it was just the gold, the beauteous glitter of it; even the scent of the treasure was a call to some powerful, primal part of him deep within his blood. But if he were honest with himself, if he paid attention to his traitorous body, he knew it was not just the wealth of this kingdom that had been his since birth.

            There’d always been a part of him that lusted for danger, for the sharp sweet sting of adrenaline that set his body and his senses alight. It flowed in him like the finest ale, drugging him in its way. The thrill of the chase, the passion of battle…it swirled thickly in him then, whispering forbidden thoughts in his heated mind. Suggesting actions he would have never considered otherwise.

            _Take, take. You know you want this. It is your kingdom and the throne will not wait. Take, seize, conquer. This is your kingdom and all shall pay homage. Rule as you were meant to rule, with an iron fist devoid of mercy._

_Take back what is rightfully yours._

The lure of the gold, shining bright and waiting to be claimed. The delicious, stomach-knotting danger crowding close in his seizing lungs. The lean, sinewy body now pressed nearly inch for inch along his own, not being offered for the taking but instead promising to take. To subdue, to dominate with cold-blooded ruthlessness.

            “I grow… _impatient_.” The word was hissed out slowly and the Dwarf could swear he all but felt the word itself slide along his sweat-slickened skin. Suggestive. Aggressive. He shuddered not involuntarily, and on impulse flashed his enemy a wicked grin with eyes ablaze.

            “A king does not take into consideration the petty whims of his subjects,” he said lazily, with just a hint of condescension. The dragon’s eyes darkened, whether with anger, lust or both he could not tell. All he knew was that the clawed hand holding his wrists above his head tightened so that the long nails scraped against his skin. He inhaled sharply at the slice of pleasure-pain, having to bite back a moan as his cock twitched.

            And the worm’s eyes quirked, confused for a moment. But as understanding slowly slid through the multihued irises, an equally slow smile twitched those thin, pale lips.

            “Is that how it’s to be then?” he breathed. Almost experimentally he dragged his incisors down the long line of Thorin’s exposed throat, feeling his groin tightening at the thin lines of blood that welled there, at the heady copper taste of the Dwarf as he licked back up, at the harsh groan that spilled from his captive. Oh, but he was going to enjoy this.

            Before Thorin could make his next move, before he could think, the discarded necklace was suddenly pushed against his lips, the metal no longer cool to the touch. It was hot, practically steaming with some magic unknown to him.

            “Lick it.”

            “No.” He would not be made to give in, not so easily. If the worm wanted compliance he had to prove himself worthy.

            “I said,” his tail whipped up to slice a gash in Thorin’s cheek, “lick it. Slowly.”

            Panting, the beginnings of a plan starting to form in his heated brain, Thorin shot the man-dragon a glare and opened his mouth to the treasure.

            It was an…unusual taste, but oh so heady. Warm from his and the creature’s hands, from the close-hanging air that sat simmering in the vastness of the room. Metallic sharpness bit at his tongue but he welcomed it, feeling his gut stir with some primal desire, the unforgiving, powerful gold-lust of the Dwarves.

            And such texture, smooth in some places and rough in others, where decorative dips and ridges fell and rose to meet his tongue. He found himself groaning around the treasure, beginning to savor the sensation of the long chain slipping over his lips, moistening from his ministrations. Sliding, bunching when he suckled.

            When he let it fall free, Smaug brought up a hand to catch the pooling gold. His breathing had a harsher edge to it now, and his fangs seemed to have lengthened.

            “Very good.” His voice was almost more a snarl now than spoken word, and his grin was absolutely predatory. His grip lessened slightly, the claws stroking little lines into the soft skin of Thorin’s inner wrist. He then dropped the necklace over his captive’s head so that it fell neatly around his neck. And felt a glow of victory as the Dwarf swelled with evident pride.

            What he had not been prepared for, however, was the Dwarf suddenly dropping to the ground, swinging his leg out to sweep Smaug’s own out from under him. He landed with a crash, hissing as one of his wings was bent at a painful angle. Thorin straddled him then, eyes ablaze with pride, with the lust for blood as much as that of gold, and with a keen, undeniable arousal.

            Smaug let loose a feral growl, beautiful face contorting into something bestial. Claws raked fruitlessly against the strong, sinewy arms that held his own in place. Thorin simply let his lips curve up, welcoming the white-hot shivers the pain sent lancing through his body. Smug, in control, he locked his legs outside the other’s, and ground his hips down.

            They groaned in unison then, deliciously hot friction blooming up between them. Thorin felt a dizzying power rise up in tandem to his desire, seeing his enemy at his mercy. He could take what he wanted, what his body craved from this creature, make him weak, then dispose of him and have his treasure back to its rightful owner.

            Steadily increasing vibrations from below snapped him out of his reverie, had him narrowing his eyes at the worm beneath him. Smaug’s face was animalistic now, twisting as he chuckled, the harshness of it grating over Thorin’s senses in a way that made him feel suddenly cold.

            “Oh no,” he hissed, tail suddenly snaking up to wrap too tight across Thorin’s waist. “I don’t _think_ so.”

            Suddenly he was flying, slamming into a pile of treasure, sending coins in a golden shower out from his point of impact. He coughed, sputtered, cried out as the beast suddenly grasped him by the wrists, pinning him to the gold beneath.

            “So foolish,” he purred again, though there was no amusement now in his face. “It seems you need a lesson in humility, Dwarfling. A king must earn his place upon the throne.”

            His clawed hand came down in a stinging, openhanded slap, sending pain singing across Thorin’s cheek. It stung fiercely, and tightened his already compressed chest. Pain and pleasure rose in twin peaks of flame, diving into each other to intertwine themselves, becoming inseparable. Indistinguishable from one another. And the Dwarven king knew that he could not win this battle unless he complied for the time being.

            And as much as he was loath to admit it to himself, a part of him wanted to prove himself worthy in this way. He wanted to be revered and if this helped him secure that, so be it.

            Two more slaps landed hard over his pectorals, claws scraping at the end of each, bringing hot blood to the under-surface of his skin and when had his tunic disappeared? Blinking, trying to focus through the red haze the worm was weaving about him, he saw the fabric in shredded tatters about his torso. Smaug had torn it apart.

            Of course, fair’s fair – the worm wore naught on his upper body save the fine coat that covered broad shoulders and ethereally pale skin. Skin, Thorin found himself thinking, that was far too unblemished.

            Having taken his lack of struggling as consent, Smaug had loosed his hold on the Thorin’s wrists and was instead slicing odd designs into the flesh over his ribs with his claws, occasionally breaking skin, then laving the wounds clean with the wet prod of his tongue. All but whimpered at the taste of sweat and blood. And the fear, oh the sweetness of the Dwarf’s fear. A taste he’d long gone without.

            His cock jumped in his breeches as Thorin brought his hands up, under his jacket, to scrape sharp and deep down the smooth planes of his back. Gritted his teeth as the sensation arrowed straight to his groin, stoking his need to take. To pull surrender from the Dwarf inch by inch until he fully submitted.

            Growling, he surged forward, knocking Thorin’s hands aside. Tore at the belt that secured his breeches, taking himself in hand and inhaling sharply at the pull of skin. His free hand came down, forced the other’s mouth open as he thrust inside.

            The moist cavern that was Thorin’s mouth surprised him; he had not suspected this level of enthusiasm from his captive. He’d underestimated the Dwarf, he thought dimly as his eyes all but rolled back in his head; Thorin was doing unbelievable things with his tongue and lips. Sucking with perfect pressure and rhythm, licking with perfect heat and precision.

            Soon he was rocking steadily into the Dwarf’s mouth, groaning on each beautiful slide between his chapped lips. Familiar, molten _want_ was spiraling ever tighter in his gut, so that the hand that had been resting in Thorin’s coal-colored mane now clenched hard with the slick fire of it.

            When Thorin took him down to the root he fell forward so that his stomach rested heaving and sweaty against the Dwarf’s forehead. He felt disoriented, dizzy: all thoughts of pressing his suit had vanished. No, he cared not now for demonstrating his power. He cared only for assuaging the tide of need that swept roaring through his every vein.

            And that is exactly what he was got.

            In one smooth motion, Thorin withdrew from Smaug’s dripping shaft, brought his knees up to flip the man-dragon off of himself and followed him down so as to flip the other onto his stomach. Pressed his face into the mountain of gold beneath him as he yanked his own trousers and smallclothes down.

            Thorin sucked two fingers into his mouth as he rutted against Smaug’s arse, the friction not nearly enough but satisfactory for the time being. He concentrated on subduing the creature, though he was not struggling nearly so much as he had initially. Something that changed when he shoved both fingers into the body beneath him: Smaug bucked up, almost away from the relentless push in his passage, crying out against the pressure. Thorin felt a cruel grin slide across his features.

            He pushed and pushed, quick and short strokes, yanking at Smaug’s hair to expose his neck. He bit hard at the skin fading to scale there, growling with satisfaction at the shudder that rocked the writhing figure. He brushed over a tiny bump, lingered for a moment and was rewarded with something like a snarling sob. Kissing just behind the creature’s ear and feeling him melt, Thorin withdrew his fingers and slicked them over his own aching cock. Lined up with Smaug’s puckered entrance, and began to push inside.

            “You want this, don’t you?” He whispered it, a grin at the edges of his voice as he held the man-dragon down. “You want to submit to your king.”

            “N-no.”

            He pushed a little harder, felt the head slip inside and had to force himself to not start thrusting without abandon. Smaug’s body was a scorching clamp around his cock, searing him so that he was momentarily breathless.

            “Don’t – lie – to me.” With that he sheathed himself fully with one strong, fluid flex of his hips. Let a long-restrained, heated moan bubble up in his throat. “Don’t you dare lie to your master.”

            Smaug was clenching, his body not yet relaxed around the Dwarf’s girth. The pain had yet to give way to pleasure, though the sweet and drugging promise of it still lapped at the edges of his mind, his over-sensitized body. His claws had dug themselves into the treasure pressed unforgivingly against his bare skin, against his straining cock, and it was that sensation he reached for. The slide of warm metal that he knew so well, the memory of the pleasure it had brought him all these long years. He brought back the memory of the heady rush that had come with taking the Mountain, that thrill of power that had driven his glorious destruction of the place.

            And with that he relaxed, and the feel of being speared so fully by the Dwarf atop him increased his pleasure tenfold. Drove away the pain until just the whispering edge of it remained. He hesitated, and on a defeated exhale he submitted. He needed more; he needed it now. He could always kill the upstart later.

            “Y – yesss.” It was hissed out and it cost his pride a bit, but when Thorin withdrew achingly slow only to slam into him again with the force of a forging hammer, he forgot his pride entirely.

            “What was that?”

            _“Yes!”_ He was pushing back now, meeting the Dwarf thrust for thrust and seeing stars behind his eyes. It was hard, it was harsh; there was no gentleness or finesse to be had with this coupling. Hands were holding his slim hips in a bruising grip, and he sucked in a labored breath at the marks he felt them leaving there. His cock skirted over the gold beneath, the handle of a goblet pressing against the frenulum and wresting a keening cry from him.

            “I am your king, and I _rule_ you.”

            “My king,” he agreed, knowing he was babbling and too far gone in the throes of ecstasy to care.

            “Say it again, you filth!”

            “My king!” Smaug grunted, eyes screwing shut against the inferno threatening to burst inside him. He needed release, needed it more than he needed his next breath.

            Thorin’s breath was coming short and choppy, his lungs almost painfully tight. His cock was afire as his hips snapped ever quicker, his blood singing with the pleasure, the control, the _power_ as he thrust. His body was bowed forward, thighs trembling with effort and with his impending climax. His heart was thundering like a battle-drum as a shout built up in his throat.

            Everything was suddenly bright and sharp-edged and desperate, and he felt the pulse of his orgasm rip through him like a supernova as he all but screamed in Khuzdul. Dimly he was aware of the beast reaching down to stroke himself, the clenching in his body wringing yet more spurts of seed from the Dwarven king.

            The two of them slumped together, eyes going dark with exhaustion. Their hurts and injuries came back to make themselves known, pulling them farther into the abyss and throwing slumber’s cloak over their heaving bodies.

            And then there was nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I had really NO idea how to end this thing...I originally was gonna have one of them kill the other, but couldn't bring myself to do it. I just can't do snuff-smut.
> 
> So I went with an ambiguous, fade-to-black deal. Bite me (but only if you buy me dinner first).


End file.
